Devoid of passion’s roar I can exist no more: What else can be this life but passion strong and strife?

My essence endlessly impels my minstrelsy: Some may in throng be still, who feels for others’ ill.

Love’s flame can still set fire to lodge and goods entire: If thirst be not aflame, wherefore the saki blame?

Your judgment of the West on glamour must not rest: Its essence seems so bright by means of electric light.

The thoughts of world conquest can never shape in breast, if blessed not be your gaze with world-wide wont and ways.

I, even in winter drear, fell not in hunter’s snare: My nest’s branches bare drew the hunter’s stare.

Their plans shall end in smoke, miscarry the destined stroke: This fact with truth is fraught, no fiction of my thought.